


Tight Jeans, Loose Morals

by Science_Cat



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Band, Is it Chicago? I can't tell you that, Joe has a bar, Light Angst, M/M, Mid 2000s Fall Out Boy, Mild Blood, No don't worry there aren't any shitty self-inserts, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 13:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13436016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Science_Cat/pseuds/Science_Cat
Summary: He’s leaving alright- leaving this damn bar, these damn people, and this damned city. He’s heading west- the golden coast, baby. There isn’t anyone that’s going to stop him.Spoken like any true, edgy pop-punk anthem.





	Tight Jeans, Loose Morals

**Author's Note:**

> Something different. Might be a little rusty.
> 
> More characters, relationships, and what not if I continue this- we'll see. I can't be certain where this will actually go.  
> Excuse any of my errors- feedback is welcome as always.

The young man slumped, wrecked in the alleyway. His head leaned back on the cool concrete of the building behind him and his hands to his sides on the rocky asphalt doing nothing to dissuade the blood flow from his nose. It’s cold against the skin of his lips and he feels it drip down to the ground below him. It’s as quiet as can be in the towering trap of the city; only the ambiance of cars passing by on the streets and scattered voices of bar hops. He doesn’t remember the last time he checked the time, though it’s getting late. He can’t be bothered to open his eyes again, but a shade of red engulfed the city like it were burning, shadows stretching down alleyway and idol objects. The setting sun shone down the alley he sat in and it burnt like hell against his eyelids. The scene burnt like hellblaze, but it was devoid of actual heat. Sure he only had a thin t-shirt and hoodie- and sure his warmth was slowly being seeped out of him, but it was akin to his mood. Numb. It wasn’t the first time the city seeped him of all his worth. There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d accept the blame himself. It’s this damn place. Despite the calmness in contrast to the event previously held his skin was buzzing and his thoughts never-stopping. The blood had stopped and the young man half-heartedly wiped the excess off with his sleeve. No point in using his hands, those too, were beaten and bloody.

A smile began to form on the young man’s face. It was the kind of smile of a held secret. Opening his eyes, he began to pick himself up off the ground. He’d be lying if he said every part of his body didn’t ache. Though he welcomes the pain, it’s feeling- and it beats nothing. _You masochistic bastard._ He huffs to himself. _Bathroom. Find a bathroom, idiot._ Like one of the shadows stretching across the buildings, he peeks out of the side street and sees that he finds himself on the corner of 68th street.

##### 70th St, THE INTERSECTION OF HELL AND THE UNDERGROUND, JOE’S BAR

He shouldn’t show his face around here. He’s cut his ties and losses. Oh, but does he crave even an ounce of pity from even the weakest chains in his life. It’s darker now and more people clamber into the streets to enjoy their Friday night. The young man is transfixed by the walking sign signaling, beckoning him to cross the intersection. He does. The headlights of nose-to-tail traffic reveal and cast shadows on his face. The lighting deepens the dark circles around his eyes and shows the grime on his clothes and skin. The sign begins counting down signaling him to hurry up. _Slow down._ He makes it past the street. He looks up from the ground at the glowing neon lights pushed up against the bar’s windows. Does he chance it and make an otherwise undesirable choice? He does. 

The door is already propped open to the street. Pete casually slips in and he’s hit with the familiar atmosphere of the bar. A sharp smell of drink wafts towards him. His vices sit along the wall- every hue of amber liquid in their inverted bottles. He’d been the lowlife crying in the corner of this bar many times. Weaving through people, he looks to the bar to see who’s serving. Not Joe, thank God. He sees Travie and some new guy; young, lively. The bar is hundreds of conversations, all of them trying to compete with the rock music dominating the space. The crowd is mixed. A handful of older looking people, but a lot of younger college kids too. If he hadn’t known any better this could’ve been another night he’d be drunk off his ass looking to score with anyone without a conscience for the night. Pete makes his way through the crowd to the small hallway at the back of the bar, praying that no one notices him. He stops dead in his tracks midway, pausing to look around; he felt knowing eyes on himself, but little to no avail doesn’t make out any familiar faces. Reaching the desired destination, he pushes the swing open door to the men’s room. Rough wooden splinters cut into his palm. It’s exactly what you’d expect. He’s greeted with a dull, sterile light and surprised to find a nearly empty bathroom. There’s a man hugging a toilet, drunk out of his mind and it smells of sick. He walks up to the leaky sink, turning it on and begins at trying to clean up. The water stings the cuts on his hands, but it’s cooling. The lighting makes him look gaunt and his otherwise tannish skin, pale. He moves the dark mop of hair out of his face and cleans up the excess dried blood. The skin around his eye is still slightly tender and bruised. Scruff is growing at a steady rate.

He’s looked worse.

The towel dispenser whirs as he dries his face and his hands with the brown, course paper. The door creaks open, high heels clack against the tiles but he doesn’t turn around.

“You’d better haul ass before Joe gets here,” a clear, cutting feminine voice says.

“Think I don’t know that? Fuck off, I don’t need anybody telling me obvious shit.” He finally turns to face the woman. 

She’s leaning against the wall on one shoulder and her gaze meets Pete’s. Her long legs are bare but most of her body is covered to the public by a long coat. Her lips are pursed with determination, a cigarette pinched between her fingers. Her eyes are tired, deep, dark circles lined underneath.

“Oh yeah? You’re eating this shit up, kid. Save yourself some grief wouldya?” 

There’s an elongated bout of silence. The drunken man is still wheezing over the toilet. 

“You’re no better than me, Maya. You’re just some whore I’ve coped feelings for at some point in time,” he spouts out with an edge and without a second thought. His voice is raspy. 

She’s jaded by the statement.

“And _I_ don’t need anybody telling _me_ obvious shit, but here we both are, aren’t we?”  
“Don’t worry. Trust me when I say I’m leaving,” he sneers at her as he pushes past into the dark club. He’s leaving alright- leaving this damn bar, these damn people, and this damned city. He’s heading west- the golden coast, baby. There isn’t anyone that’s going to stop him. May the bridges burnt light his way.

Maya follows him out the bathroom, stopping once out of the hallway as Pete continues into the crowd.

“Do you know what the hell you’re even doing Pete Wentz!?”

He doesn’t.


End file.
